


Ghost Maps

by runsinthefamily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Purgatory, Season Eight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:50:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily





	Ghost Maps

He follows the line of the terrified boy's arm. The woods are dark and alive, and for a moment it's hard to remember where he is - but then his arm throbs, and he inhales the smell of evergreen and leafmould, clenches his hand on the ridiculous backpack.

Three hours gets him to the road, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon. The smell of the blacktop is almost dizzying, the carbon ghost of exhaust thick in his nostrils. He crouches in the tree line, watching. He catalogues the contents of the backpack by touch. Shirts, energy bars, a couple of books. Three cars pass by before he hears the rattle and cough of an older vehicle and stands, fighting every instinct. He stretches his spine, pastes on a smile.

_Lookit them pearly whites. Ain't as impressive as mine, brother, but mighty pretty all the same._

The truck pulls over. "You look in need of a helping hand, son." The driver is older, in plaid and a farmer's cap, eyes sharp but kind. 

"That I am," says Dean. "Got a bit lost. Was camping." He hikes the backpack a bit.

"How far you headed?" 

"West. As far as you can take me."

"Alright, hop in." 

The door swings open, and Dean puts on hand on the edge of it, lifts his foot, and then can go no further. _Den!_ his mind screams at him. The truck smells of the man, strongly, cigarettes and beer and a hint of shaving cream and sweat. It's dim, and close, and once in, there will be nowhere to go. _Not in fucking Purgatory anymore,_ he thinks, and forces his foot to the footwell, climbs in, shuts the door. He breaks out in a sweat immediately.

"Hoo! Don't take this the wrong way, son, but you stink. How long were you wandering?"

"Couple days," he says.

"You smell like you danced a tango with a bear," the driver says, and then grins to take the sting out. "I'm Tony." He sticks a hand toward Dean.

_... seize his wrist like so, take the hand off at the elbow, jam the spurting end into his eyes and gut him ..._

Dean takes the hand, carefully, and shakes. "Dean."

***

He's tired, of course. He pretends to sleep against the window, after a few flailing attempts to return Tony's friendly overtures at conversation. He's lost the ability to small talk, it seems, left it somewhere in Purgatory. Forgot it in a harpy's entrails, perhaps. The hum of the road, a sound that used to soothe him like a mother's hand, now grates at his nerves, white noise that covers everything and leaves him feeling deaf. The truck's headlights steal his night vision. He misses Benny, misses the bulk of him at his side, at his back. 

_'Don't forget me now, brother.' His clever eyes, his big hands, clasped loosely together._

_'Don't you worry about that.'_

His arm twinges and he shifts in the seat, shuddering a bit.

Tony turns the heat up.

***

Something touches his shoulder and he snaps awake, body moving before his brain catches up.

"Whoa, whoa!"

Dean blinks, looks at Tony's shocked face, glances at where he's has the man's hand twisted sideways, feels the clench and strain of his other fist. His whole body is quivering, jolted into high gear, adrenaline like an electric current. His ears sing.

"Whoa, there, son," says Tony, gently, not without trepidation. "Ain't gonna do nothing."

"Shit," says Dean, and lets him go. "Shit, sorry."

Tony rubs at his twisted hand, eyeing Dean. "Iraq or Afghanistan?" he asks.

Dean stares at him. 

"Well, you don't have to tell me," Tony says. "Not my business."

"Sorry," Dean says again, looking out the window. They're at a crossroads. 

"I was just going to let you know that this is where I turn," says Tony. 

"Right." Dean gathers his scattered thoughts, takes a deep, deliberate breath to dispell the remnants of tension. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem." Tony eyes him as he opens the door.

It's sheer bliss to be in the open again, surveying the tree line, the road in both directions. Minimal threat, no movement or smell or sound to indicate danger. He'd forgotten how fucking benign it was up here, just grass and fields and tweety birds. 

"Been lost more than a couple days, I think," Tony says, casually.

Dean turns back, feeling the swell of vicious triumph again, as he'd felt watching the gate open in a blaze of light. "But now I'm found," he says, and grins.

"Right," says Tony. His voice falters a little but Dean can't find it in him to care much. The ride's over, let the old bastard think what he likes. 

"Nearest town?" He shrugs the backpack on.

Tony nods left. "'Bout five miles. Good luck to you," he says. He doesn't sound like he entirely means it.

Dean shuts the door and puts his boot leather to work. The sound of the truck pulling out behind him indicates that Tony was giving the old girl a bit more gas than entirely needed. 

_Every soul here is a monster._

Dean frowns, clasps his left arm close to him. One last hill to climb, and then. Sammy. Sammy, and maybe he could stand down. For a while, anyway. He checks his weapons, absently, reflexively, then pulls out one of the energy bars and crams it. Tastes like shit, but god knows he's eaten worse.

"Comin' home," he mutters. He allows himself a moment to tilt his head back, eyes shut. The sun is a benediction on his face and shoulders. "Coming' home," he says again, and then he sits down abruptly on the gravel shoulder, his knees like water, and covers his face with his hands. 

It's an hour before he can move again.


End file.
